Page 45 of The Monster You Made
By dusk, we reach the outer fields. They are poor things, patches of farmland beaten thin by weather, huts scattered like broken teeth, fences sagging. People move there, bent under burdens of wood and water, their faces pale and wary. When they see us, they do not wave, do not call. They watch. Suspicion runs deep in their eyes, sharpened by fear. Outsiders bring trouble, and trouble is something they already have too much of.
At the gates, the guards bar our path. Their armor is rough, mismatched pieces scavenged from older wars, their spears dented but steady. One steps forward, his eyes narrowing on Lucian’s blades, on the satchel slung across his back. “Travelers?” His voice is flat, unwelcoming.
Lucian does not answer. His silence stretches like a blade unsheathed. I step forward instead, shifting Abigail in my arms, letting them see her small face. “We seek shelter,” I say, my voice steady. “We’ve come far, running from the Crown.”
The guard’s eyes flicker. At the mention of the Crown, a murmur ripples among them. They glance at one another, unease writ clear. Then the leader gestures. “Inside. But keep your blades sheathed. Cause trouble, and you’ll find no mercy here.”
We pass beneath the gate, into streets narrow and crowded. The city is no jewel of stone, but a patchwork of lives clinging together, wooden houses leaning on one another for support, cobblestones cracked and uneven, stalls of fish and bread lining the square. The air smells of smoke, sweat, and faintly of salt, carried on the wind from some unseen river or sea. People move about with care, shoulders hunched, voices low. Fear lives here, too, though it hides behind routine.
We find an inn near the square, its sign creaking in the wind. Inside, the common room is dim, lit by firelight and the glow of oil lamps. The compounder eyes us warily but takes cash for food and a room. Bread, stew, thin ale. We eat in silence, Abigail’s small hands trembling as she lifts the spoon. I tell her stories between bites, Marta’s words reshaped into softer tales, of rivers that sing, of wolves who guard truth in the dark. She listens, her eyes wide, as though clinging to each word like rope.
That night, in the room above the inn, Lucian lays the satchel on the table. He unrolls the maps, with the parchments scattered across the wood. Patrol routes, supply lines, gaps in the Crown’s net. His fingers trace the lines, his jaw tight.“Here,” he murmurs, pointing to a valley east. “The patrols thin. Supplies run through it, unguarded.”
Rourke leans against the wall, arms crossed, his face shadowed. “And what then? We strike a supply truck or two, steal bread? That won’t break Declan.”
Lucian’s eyes lift, cold as frost. “Every wound weakens him. Bleed the beast enough, and it stumbles.”
I watch them, the firelight flickering across their faces. Rourke is right, small strikes will not topple Declan. But Lucian is right, too; bleeding him matters. Both truths cut. I rest my hand on the satchel, feeling the weight of parchment beneath. “If the people see the Crown bleed, they will know it can be wounded. That is how fires start.”
Lucian’s gaze lingers on me, sharp, unreadable. At last, he nods. “Then we strike.”
***
Days blur within the city. Abigail finds some measure of peace here, with other children to glimpse in the square, bread warm from the ovens, and nights where she sleeps without waking to screams. For me, rest is fragile. The streets whisper of Crown eyes, of informants paid in cash or fear. Every shadow feels longer than it should.
***
I’m crouched on the edge of the abandoned church’s roof, the cracked shingles biting into my knees, the night air sharp with the scent of old stone and rust. The city sprawls below, a jagged mess of lights and shadows, but up here, it’s just meand Lucian, the world reduced to this crumbling perch. My heart hammers, not from fear but from the electric pulse of being this close to him, knowing what’s coming. His silhouette looms against the moonless sky, broad shoulders cutting a brutal shape, his jacket creaking as he shifts. He’s all edges tonight, eyes like flint, jaw tight, the kind of tension that makes me want to push him just to see how far he’ll snap.
“Get over here, Vera,” he growls, voice low, a command wrapped in a threat. His boots scrape the roof as he steps closer, and I feel the air shift, heavy with his presence. I don’t move, not yet. I let the defiance curl my lips, let it spark in my eyes as I tilt my head, challenging him. He hates when I make him wait, and I love the way it makes his control fray.
“Make me,” I say, my voice a blade, sharp and deliberate. I’m baiting him, and we both know it. My pulse races, thighs clenching as I brace for his reaction. The roof feels smaller now, the space between us crackling with heat and unspoken violence.
Lucian’s eyes darken, a storm brewing in their depths. He crosses the distance in two strides, his hand shooting out to grip my wrist, yanking me to my feet. The force of it sends a jolt through me, pain and thrill blurring into one. His fingers are iron, bruising, and I hiss, twisting against his hold, not because I want to break free but because I want him to feel my resistance, to know I’m not some pliant thing he can bend without a fight.
“You think you can play me?” he snarls, his face inches from mine, breath hot against my cheek. His scent, leather, smoke, and something darker, like blood and earth, floods my senses. I don’t answer, just bare my teeth in a feral grin, shoving against his chest with my free hand. He doesn’t budge, his bodya wall of muscle and heat, and the futility of it only stokes the fire in my gut.
I wrench my wrist free, the burn of his grip lingering like a brand, and I lunge at him, not to escape but to collide. My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer as I slam my mouth against his. It’s not a kiss, it’s a clash, teeth and tongues and raw hunger. He growls into my mouth, his hands seizing my hips, fingers digging into flesh through my jeans. The pain makes me gasp, and he takes the opening, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming me with a brutality that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I bite his lip, hard, tasting copper. He jerks back, eyes flashing with something dangerous, and for a second, He laughs, low and rough, the sound vibrating through me. “You little fucking wildcat,” he mutters, and then his hands are on me again, ripping at my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders. The night air hits my skin, cold and sharp, but I barely feel it over the inferno of his touch.
He spins me, slamming my back against the church’s crumbling chimney, the rough stone scraping through my thin shirt. I arch against it, half in pain, half in defiance, my nails raking down his arms. He doesn’t flinch, just grabs my thighs and hoists me up, pinning me between the chimney and his body. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and I feel him, hard and straining against his jeans, pressing into me through the layers of fabric. The friction is maddening, a tease that makes me grind against him, chasing the pressure.
“Fuck, Vera,” he rasps, his voice raw, like he’s barely holding on. His hands slide under my shirt, calloused palms rough against my ribs, my breasts. He doesn’t ask, doesn’thesitate, just takes, his fingers pinching my nipples hard enough to make me cry out, the sound swallowed by the night. I hate how much I love it, how my body betrays me, arching into his roughness, craving more.
I claw at his shirt, yanking it up, needing his skin under my hands. His chest is a map of scars and muscle, hot and unyielding, and I dig my nails in, leaving red trails that make him hiss. He retaliates by grabbing my jaw, forcing my head back against the stone, his mouth crashing into mine again. This time, it’s slower, deeper, but no less vicious, like he’s trying to consume me, to mark me from the inside out. I let him, but I give as good as I get, biting, sucking, tasting the sweat and blood on his lips.
He shifts, one hand dropping to my jeans, ripping at the button with a violence that makes my breath catch. The denim scrapes down my thighs, cool air hitting my exposed skin, and I’m bare to him now, vulnerable in a way that makes my heart pound with equal parts fear and need. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give me time to think, just shoves his own jeans down enough to free himself, his cock hard and heavy against my thigh.
I tense, not out of hesitation but anticipation, my body screaming for him even as my mind rebels against the surrender. He senses it, the way I stiffen, and his eyes lock on mine, a predator’s gaze.
“You want this,” he says, not a question. I nod, a sharp jerk of my chin, even as I glare at him, daring him to prove it.
He doesn’t wait. He thrusts into me in one brutal motion, filling me so completely I cry out, the sound raw and jagged. The stretch burns, a delicious ache that makes my toes curl, my nailsdigging into his shoulders. He doesn’t give me time to adjust, just pulls back and slams into me again, the force rattling my bones against the stone. My hips rocking to match his rhythm, chasing the edge of pain and pleasure.
The roof seems to tilt beneath us, the world narrowing to the slick heat of our bodies, the slap of skin, the ragged gasps tearing from my throat. His hands grip my hips so hard I know I’ll bruise, purple blooms to match the ones already forming on my wrist, my thighs. I want them, want the evidence of this moment, of him, etched into my skin. I rake my nails down his back, hard enough to draw blood, and he groans, a primal sound that vibrates through me, pushing me closer to the edge.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growls, his voice breaking, and there’s that flicker of tenderness again, raw and unguarded, in the way his eyes search mine. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He shifts, changing the angle, hitting a spot deep inside that makes me see stars, my head falling back against the chimney with a moan I can’t suppress.
